Damian’s Bad Poetry

There was a time when I fancied myself to be a poet. Oh, I’d get inspired, usually after watching “The X-Files” or something, and I’d start spewing out lines like I was Poe’s cousin, Edgar Allan Poor. But the thing is, the poetry sucked. I mean, it was atrocious. 4 year olds with ADHD could create better art than I did at the time, and I soon realized that, so I stopped.

But why keep all that yummy badness to myself? Here, world – share my pain.

The Crack

Beginning from nowhere,
The crack in the ceiling mesmerizes me.
Its sharp angles, haphazardly careening about
Completely defy explanation.

How did it get there?Wise men say,
“When the house settles, these black-hearted
menaces appear.” But not I.
I think they are passageways to new adventures,
Opening slowly.

The crack flows along the bottom of
The attic floor, the same way the
Great Pee Dee river races to the sea.
However, its banks are made of plaster, not sand.

Where did it come from?Wise men say,
“They happen when the molecules that comprise
The ceiling separate.”But not me.
I believe Jupiter’s alignment (plus Republican rule) created my nocturnal visitor.

Its progress is halted by the light fixture.
From my vantage point, it looks as though
A stream on the moon ends at a grand cathedral.
I wonder of its occupants. Are they friend or foe?

Patiently, lazily, the crack exits the cathedral
And continues its slow journey across the Wasteland.
The arid climate does little to impede
Its progress.The small mountains and shallow
Valleys seem not to notice this lonely pilgrim,
Marching along.

Finally, the weary crack reaches the end of its
Journey.Only now do I realize its purpose.
This river, this pilgrim, this crack in my ceilingIs merely urging me to keep striving.

14 comments

OK – I wasn’t high, I was at a buddy’s house, lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling while he made microwavable pork rinds. I think the smell altered my brain chemistry. But trust – there’s more where that came from. If this is popular, I’ll post more. They’re AWFUL. AWFUL!

And yet you’re such a good song writer… what gives and how do I get my hands on whatever you were smoking. I call bullshit. No one is THAT bad at poetry without some mind-altering substance. Give up the good shit and no one gets hurt

Doesn’t it count for something that I ACKNOWLEDGE that it’s utter swill, fit only for death row inmates and people named Jim Bob? Claire, I’m with ya – I almost wanna cut my own fingers off for writing this shit. That’s it – I’m posting more. Metalchick – if I had it, I’d totally share. Puff, puff, give. NeverEnough, I was LUCID. That’s what makes is so bad! I’ve literally got nothing to stand on here. Just wait – you ain’t seen nothing yet.

“Crack…” Yeah-huh! Or maybe your friend totally mised hash into that dish o’ rinds. I have to join the consensus about the substance abuse (and by substance I mean words). Also… this is not really X-files, it’s more like that weird-ass show “Millenium.” And what a cracked-up adventure the writers on that show were having themselves… DD, it’s an art to be such a bad poet. And you know it.